


(Re)Definition

by omegal14 (unheard_secret)



Series: Shameless [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:31:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unheard_secret/pseuds/omegal14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some changes that can't be avoided. </p><p>(Sherlock discovers he's an omega, and it changes everything. Pre-Slash. First in the Shameless!Verse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Re)Definition

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a long time ago based on a prompt (which I now can't find) that asked for an unpresented Sherlock to discover he was an omega after John moved in with him at Baker St. Several amazing authors (including fresne in her amazing series here: http://archiveofourown.org/series/22231) took up the challenge and wrote fics. Understandably I fled. My fic certainly wasn't as ambitious, or as well written! (And it still isn't!)
> 
> However, having recently posted my first omega'verse pwp without incident (phew), I revisited this fic with the idea of building it into the backstory behind the relationship seen that pwp's brief scene. This fic doesn't travel much distance toward the future relationship... but it does show an important step. 
> 
> It's un-beta'd and hasn't been brit-picked, so if you see any spelling/grammar mistakes, or inconsistencies in the narrative voice etc., then the fault is all mine. Please, feel free to let me know!
> 
> Hope you enjoy...

John woke to the sound of china breaking in the kitchen below. The sharp splintered crack of vials shattering on the laminate floor was loud enough to rouse him, for all it was three in the morning and he'd only made it to bed at one. 

"Sherlock?" he mumbled, fumbling for the light switch. "What--?"

Another vial hit the floor and John clambered from his bed, his bare feet finding the floor with a thud. He stumbled down the stairs, one hand pressing against the wall, the other rubbing at his eyes as he fought against the cumulative exhaustion of a day spent at the surgery and a night spent chasing Sherlock across London.

"Not the time for experiments, Sherlock," he said entering in the kitchen, tiredness putting a frustrated edge to his voice. "I was trying to sleep."

Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't even move from where he was standing, hands braced on the kitchen table, his head bowed and his shoulders tense. 

John slowly lowered the hand that had been bracing him against the doorjamb, stepping forward into the kitchen, wondering what was wrong. "Sherlock?" he asked. "Are you all right?" He stepped closer, his eyes travelling from Sherlock's lowered head, down the line of Sherlock's back, to where his hands were gripping the table; where his knuckles were white with strain. Something was wrong, beyond a broken vial. Sherlock was shaking with suppressed shivers, his shoulders tense. 

John took a step forward without thinking, forgetting the glass on the floor. Not remembering his bare feet. "What's wrong?" he asked. "What--?"

"Glass, John," warned Sherlock, his voice harsh. 

John stopped, and glanced down at the floor where the shattered glass glittered in the kitchen's weak light. The pieces were fanned across the floor at Sherlock's feet. It was as though Sherlock had fumbled and dropped his equipment where he stood--but John had seen Sherlock at work and he couldn't imagine those dextrous fingers dropping anything unless it was deliberate. 

"What happened, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice quiet and tight with worry. 

John knew Sherlock in a tiff, and he knew Sherlock when he was bored. He'd seen Sherlock throw expensive equipment to the ground in pique, and he'd once watched him shatter over forty mirrors in order to record the cracks that formed in the glass. He knew Sherlock in the way that only a friend and a flatmate could. He knew Sherlock--perhaps better than anyone else--but he'd never seen him like this.

"Nothing happened," said Sherlock, his voice was sharp and dismissive. But also tight with something that sounded very much like pain. 

"Three broken vials," John pointed out. "That's not nothing."

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long moment. He just breathed deeply and curled inward a little, as though he was fighting a cramp, deep in his abdomen. His hands twitched and his shoulders rose and fell in a strangled breath. "It's nothing you need to be worried about," he said, eventually, in a shallow gasp. "Please. Go away, John."

"What?" said John, worried. "No. No, I won't leave. At least, not until--"

Sherlock's grip slid on the table, and his arms shook under him as he let out a sound suspiciously like a strangled sob. "Go," he pleaded, his body shaking, and his head dropping lower. "Please."

John ignored him, moving forward. Choosing to hear only the pain in Sherlock's voice, and not the panic. 

He stepped over the glass, reaching for Sherlock's shoulder. With a small tug he pulled Sherlock toward him. Wanting to see his face. Needing to find out what was wrong. He couldn't help while Sherlock was turned away from him, hiding his pain. 

"Sherlock--" he said, his palm brushing carefully, reassuringly across Sherlock's back. _Please look at me_ , he wanted to say, _just turn around and let me help_ , but the words were caught in an unsaid tangle in his throat when Sherlock caved under his touch. 

It was sudden. Without warning, Sherlock fell into John's chest, like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut. It was as though John had violently pulled backward, instead of simply laying a hand on his shoulder. 

Sherlock cried out as his legs folded beneath him -- a wordless sound of despair -- his hands reached out, trying to stop his fall. 

John caught Sherlock awkwardly, his hands braced under his armpits; Sherlock's head supported against his chest. He grunted at the force of Sherlock's collapse, stumbling back a step as he struggled not to fall under their combined weight. 

"Sherlock?" he asked, his voice rough with concern as he tried to drag the man into a more secure hold.

Sherlock groaned softly and tried to stand, but his body was weak, and he ended up hindering John more than helping. He batted at John's chest, and pressed at his arms, getting a loose hold on John's shoulder and trying to tug himself up. "Let go," he mumbled. "... go." His words were muffled in John's jumper. His voice quiet and thready. 

"Stop it," demanded John, frustrated, trying not to drop Sherlock onto the floor, very aware of the glass that was scattered across the linoleum. "Stop fighting me." He pulled Sherlock up by the armpit with some force, trying to get a better grip on his tall frame. He expected Sherlock to protest, and was surprised when, instead of fighting, Sherlock suddenly went still in his arms. 

One moment he was struggling against John, wrestling with his body in order to get up and move away. The next, he had let himself fall limp in John's arms. No. Limp wasn't the right word. He didn't just drop into John's arms like a dead weight. He stopped fighting for control. He went still and compliant, working with John instead of against him, following John's lead. 

With Sherlock helping him John found he was able to easily pull him up, and in moments Sherlock was standing again, although he was still leaning heavily on John, one arm slung across John's shoulders. "Are you all right? What just happened?" John asked, not really expecting a response, stumbling toward the sitting room and the couch. He needed to get Sherlock seated so he could examine him properly. Something was wrong, very wrong, but John didn't have enough information to make a diagnosis. 

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he just let himself be half dragged, half pulled, across the room. He whimpered softly with every step, clutching at his lower abdomen as though a great pain was centred there. John glanced down, trying to see if there was a visible injury, but it was too dark to see clearly. Sherlock's front could be covered in blood and he wouldn't be able to tell. 

Hurriedly, he set Sherlock on the couch, lying him down with his head away from the door. Sherlock slumped on his side, his knees curled up into his chest, and his head resting on a pillow. One hand was flung out toward John, while the other curled tight about his chest, and his gaze followed John as he stood over him; his eyes tracking John's movement with a fevered accuracy. John was disturbed to note that the expression in his eyes was distant and glassy.

John was just about to step away to turn on the light, when Sherlock gave a soft moan and curled in tight, and then--well, _then_ John could smell the pheromones. They hit John like a punch to the face. 

They were heady and intoxicating and impossible. John took a deep breath and the air smelled like sandalwood and innocence and a moment later he was on his knees by the couch, one hand grasping Sherlock's outflung wrist, the other pressed into Sherlock's hair. 

"God. Sherlock, no" he groaned as desire jack knifed down his spine. "Please tell me you're not an omega."

...

He'd fled as far from Sherlock as he could--as far as his damn biology would allow him--which meant that he was now sitting by the cold, dark fireplace, staring at Sherlock and trying to gather enough willpower to take the three steps needed to reach the desk, terrified that if he started moving he wouldn't stop.

He was huddled in his chair, his legs curled up to his chest and his arms wrapped about them. His feet were freezing, and his breath was misting the air, but he didn't trust himself to move. Not just yet. Sherlock was still on the couch, blankets piled over him, his head only just visible above their warm bulk. He was lying curled to the side, looking over toward John, and his feverish gaze had shivers running down John's spine. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked him, not expecting an answer. Sherlock was too far gone to be aware, his body had taken over, and it would be at least a day before the hormones that were flooding his system started to dissipate. But John needed to ask him, all the same, even if the question echoed with futility and his voice was hollow with helplessness. 

There was no answer. Sherlock's gaze didn't change, he just continued to look toward John, his eyes bright and empty with desire. 

"You knew I was an alpha," said John, rubbing at his face with his hand, tiredly knuckling his eyes. "You knew, and yet you're here. Now. With me--why didn't you send me away? You should have sent me away. Unless..." he blinked slowly, “you couldn’t tell me? Were you suppressing your heats? Was that it? Suppressants they...” He trailed off, trying to remember how often suppressants were said to fail. They were administered so rarely that he found himself struggling. 

He groaned and closed his eyes tightly. Opening them again only when the smell of Sherlock--of his heat--became too heady. His groin pulsed in heavy demand. "God, no--not happening," he told himself with an exhausted sigh.

Slowly, tentatively testing himself, John put his feet on the floor, wincing as his muscles twinged. He didn't move any further. He just sat there, his feet firmly planted on the ground, his legs splayed and his hands gripping the arm of his chair so firmly he could hear the wood groaning. 

"You should have sent me away," he said again, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. He felt helpless and aroused and confused. 

Sherlock should have known enough to get rid of him, at the very least. All omegas learnt that lesson as soon as they were old enough to listen. No parent wanted their omega child to experience the capricious whims of biology without preparation. Heats could start as young as fourteen and when they came they were merciless and demanding. Hell, even alphas were taught what it meant for an omega to be in heat well before they learnt anything else. 

Omegas were rare, but they weren't so rare as to be exceptional, and especially in the urban centres--especially in progressive cities like London--they were almost common. Ten percent of the population was the statistic worldwide. But that ten percent tended to be found in certain places, not because of any trick of nature, but because omegas would flee from the areas where they were treated as inferior, as second class citizens, and make their way to the cities--like London, like New York--where they could work and live in relative peace. 

Sherlock was not the first omega John had met, but he was the first who had said nothing--and whose body hadn't immediately given him away. 

"Why did you do it?" asked John, his voice rough and his gaze tracing Sherlock's face. "Why did you hide it?" His eyes followed Sherlock's nose down and back up again, before following the shape of Sherlock's eyes, still fixed unerringly on him. Then, as though drawn, his gaze slid back to Sherlock's parted lips just as Sherlock's tongue flicked out, slicking the bow of his lower lip. John groaned and felt his thigh muscles tense involuntarily, lifting his hips a little from the chair, the rough cloth of his pyjama pants rubbing across his erection--an unbearable friction. 

He wasn't going to last much longer. Strength of will could only sustain him for so long. Slowly he slid from his chair, easing himself into a standing position, his muscles burning as he fought the temptation to stride toward Sherlock. 

Sherlock gave a soft whine of anticipation as he watched John stand, and his body shifted under the blankets until he was lying almost entirely on his stomach, his head still turned in John's direction. 

"No," muttered John, not even looking at Sherlock, his gaze trained on his feet. "Not happening."

Slowly he took a step forward, his foot shuffling across the floor, his shoulders hunched. A simple transferal of his weight from his right foot to his left, and it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. 

His blood was pounding, the room smelled like an omega in heat, his groin was drawn tight in anticipation, and not stepping toward Sherlock made him _ache_.

The desk was cluttered but the drawer was easily accessible, and John slid it open as quickly as he could, ignoring the way a pile of books tettered on the edge of the desk--nearly falling as the desk shook from force of his pull. "You glorious bastard," he whispered to Sherlock as his hand found what he'd been looking for. "I'll never complain about your peculiarities again." He glanced up, meeting Sherlock's feverish gaze one last time, his breath hitching when he saw that Sherlock had tossed off the blankets and was crouched with his head low and his arse high, reading himself for breeding by an alpha, reading himself for John. 

It made something in John demand action. Reason told him to stay where he was, but his biology pressed him forward. He wanted to take Sherlock, spread him open, feel the slick of Sherlock's anus with his fingers and taste it with his tongue, he wanted to forced Sherlock's head down, and his thighs wide as he breached his hole. He wanted to watch as the head of his cock pressed inside, before pressing deeper still, slowly spreading Sherlock until he was painfully and obscenely open. Then he wanted to rock into him, slow and easy until he came, knotting and filling Sherlock with his seed, breeding him until he couldn't anymore. Until, finally he had to pull out and back away, just far enough to watch as his semen dripped from Sherlock's arse, slicking his thighs. 

He stepped forward, thinking blindly of nothing but Sherlock--ready and waiting for him, lying there on the couch alone. 

Everything on the desk shuddered as his thighs slammed against the edge. John blinked in surprise, jolted from his daze. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"You should have told me," he said, as lucidly as he could--the words only slurring a little around the edges--sliding four pills from their packet. "And don't think we're not talking about this tomorrow." He tossed the pills back quickly, swallowing them dry, and wincing as they caught in his throat. 

Slowly he moved from behind the desk, tentatively taking small steps towards Sherlock, waiting for the sleeping pills to take effect. Four pills. Enough to knock him out for over a day. Sherlock's first heat should be short, less than eight hours if he was deprived of an alpha to... well, have sex with. He should be finished by the time John awoke. John taking the pills should suffice, but still... there were too many unpredictable variables for him to be sure, not the least of which was the danger of waking too soon. He just had to hope for the best. 

John reached Sherlock and stood staring down at him for a long moment before reaching Sherlock's shoulder. Light-headed with induced tiredness he pressed at Sherlock until he was lying on his side. Sherlock went slowly, insisting on facing the back of the couch pressing his arse back toward John, determined to present himself as ready for mating no matter the position. He peered back at John over his shoulder, his back and shoulders tense--only relaxing when John placed a calming hand at the curve of his back. 

Slowly John eased down behind Sherlock, instinct fitting him snug at the curve of Sherlock's arse, though his erection was gone and unlikely to return until the sleeping pills were out of his system. 

He lay there for a long moment before shifting, and pulling at the blankets Sherlock had discarded, tucking them tight over the two of them. 

"You idiot," mumbled John, as sleep took him under. Sherlock didn't respond, lying pliant and relaxed in his arms. The contentment wouldn't last long, and John knew that within the hour Sherlock would be writhing back against him and moaning his discontentment, but it was better than the alternative. For both of them. 

...

John woke to sunlight across his face, and the smell of coffee in the kitchen. He was curled awkwardly on his right side, his arm numb below the elbow. He stretched without thinking and almost fell off the couch before he remembering where he was and pushing himself slowly upright, the blankets slipping off his shoulders pooling beside him.

"Morning," said Sherlock, carefully placing a mug--blessedly full of thick black coffee--on the small table in front of the couch. John took the mug with grateful look, and Sherlock nodded, almost thoughtfully. "I didn't think it was a morning for tea," he commented, sipping from his own mug.

Sherlock must have been awake for some time. Long enough to shower and change at least, though it couldn't have been too long as his hair was still a little damp at the ends. He was dressed immaculately in a neatly pressed suit, his jacket buttoned, and his shirt cuffs ironed. He sat opposite John on the desk chair, his back rigid and his legs crossed. He looked ready to take on anything, and John wondered what it meant that he'd put on his version of armour to have this conversation--and moreover what it meant that he was willing to have this conversation at all. 

"So--" said John, waving his hand helplessly. 

"I'm sorry," said Sherlock, and face twisted in a peculiar manner, as though the words were leaving an unusual taste in his mouth. 

John blinked in surprise. In the entire time he'd known Sherlock, he'd never heard him apologise voluntarily. He'd coaxed apologies from him for the worst of his misdemeanours, but they had been half-hearted and surly. This apology sounded peculiar not least because it seemed to be genuine. 

"Right," said John. "That's--I mean. Right."

Sherlock frowned, his gaze steadily focussed on the wall just above John's left shoulder, and took another determined sip of his coffee. 

"Why? That is--" began John, not sure how to ask what he wanted to know. "You could have just asked," he said, eventually. "I would have left."

Sherlock grimaced, and his gaze locked with John's briefly before he looked away again. In that moment John could see some strange fleeting discomfort that was lurking within Sherlock's eyes. But that was the only indication he was anything but entirely composed.

Sherlock sat tall, his chin held high, and he didn't look down as he looked away--and it was no surprise really that John hadn't known Sherlock was an omega. Without the hormones there was nothing in his body language or his stance to give him away. He stood like an alpha, spoke like an alpha, and before last night he had smelled like nothing more than a pre-pubescent beta, which was not surprising given his apparent lack of interest in sex. 

If John had wanted to label him he would have suggested that Sherlock was an asexual alpha. Or, perhaps a beta confident enough to mimic the alpha dynamic flawlessly. He never would have suggested that Sherlock might be an omega.

"I could--" began John, prepared to offer Sherlock some space for a couple of hours. The heat was over, but it was obvious neither of them knew where to go from here, and Sherlock was at his best when he had time to think. He tried not to wonder about whether or not he might have offered Sherlock the space to think just the day before, when he couldn’t sense Sherlock’s discomfort on a primal level; when the alpha in him didn’t know there was a distressed omega in the room. 

"No," said Sherlock, taking a deep breath. John watched, suddenly fascinated as his chest rose and fell. He had never known Sherlock to be so shaken before. 

"No," repeated Sherlock, more firmly. "I appreciate the thought, but I don't need any space. We should talk about this now, while the incident is still unadulterated by time." He paused with a frown, then added as though in explanation, "Silence has a tendency to breed misunderstanding."

John nodded. "Right," he said. Then stopped, unable to think of anything else to say. 

"I didn't know," said Sherlock, after a long pause. "The heat was unexpected. I can assure you, I'm not in the habit of courting non-consensual relations--I, well--I am indebted to you for your actions last night. If I had known the heat was imminent I would have been adequately prepared. I would not--That is, I would never have knowingly compromised myself--or you--in that way. So--" He trailed off, refusing to look at John, his hands curled so tightly about his mug that his knuckles were white. 

"Oh--" said John. He paused and ran his palms slowly down his thighs, the fabric of his trousers creating a soft friction against his skin. He took a deep breath, thought of the thousand questions that needed to be asked, and wondered just where he should start. "Why didn't you know?" he asked, eventually. 

He didn't let himself think about the other questions that crowded on his tongue. _Have you been suppressing it? Are you ashamed to be what you are? Were you ever going to tell me? Why here? Why now?_ Suppressants fail sometimes. John knew that, and he refused to let himself think about what it meant that Sherlock might have been on them in the first place. Only omega's who had a traumatising disconnect between their body and their mind were placed on them. They were for the mis-represented. The people whose body chemistry didn't agree with their minds. 

Sherlock froze. His body, suddenly locking into place, his every muscle crying out his discomfort with the question. "I--" he swallowed deeply, and for the first time John could see the turn of an omega in the way he held his head and the taut pull off his muscles across his shoulders. "When I say I didn't know... I, uh -- didn't know I was an omega." He looked at John defiantly. As though daring John to treat him differently. 

John stared at him. Late representation was rare, but not unheard of. "Oh," he heard himself say, his voice distant. _Not suppressants then._

Sherlock blinked and abruptly dropped his defiant gaze. No doubt hearing the distance in John's voice and taking it to be -- what? A judgement? A condemnation? Sherlock was an omega, and John was an alpha. But... even John couldn't say just what that might mean. 

John tried to speak, but found he didn't know what to say. His mind struggling against instinct as he tried to reconcile what he sensed and what he knew. This was Sherlock -- his mind knew that -- but this was Sherlock as an omega. He wanted to say _this changes nothing_ , but he couldn't. Not while the rest of him, the primal alpha part of him, was crying out at Sherlock's obvious distress. _Everything will be all right,_ John's alpha wanted to say to Sherlock, _let me stay with you. Be near you. I'll make everything better. I'll look after you because you're mine. You're mine to protect. You're mine to care for. You're mine._

John took in Sherlock's dropped gaze and found he couldn't respond. Because he wanted to say this wouldn't matter. That nothing had to change. That life could go on, despite this revelation, just as it had before. But... this changed everything. Even as it changed nothing at all. 

"I believe I presented because of your... proximity," said Sherlock, hestitating a little at the end, his eyes closing in an almost pained expression. "There have not been any other modifications in my lifestyle sufficient to trigger the change." 

It made a terrible sense really. Sherlock had presented his dynamic because of John. Omegas only reached maturity when the environment was right, not according to any strict timetable. It was almost certainly John's presence that had dictated the _right time_ had come. Sherlock's body might never have matured but for the fact there was an unattached alpha in the flat, walking about, spreading his scent, and demanding a suitable partner. 

"I'm sorry," said John, softly. 

"You weren't to know," said Sherlock, his voice uncharacteristically bleak. John gazed at him and realised he didn't have to find a way to reassure Sherlock that things were going to stay the same. Sherlock knew things would change -- had probably realised it long before John had; accepted it in a way John was still struggling to do. 

"Are you--," John started, but stopped before he could finish the sentence. _Are you all right?_ he wanted to ask. _Please... let me help you be all right._ He gazed down at his hands, not sure where else to look. 

Sherlock cleared his throat softly, filling the silence. "Mycroft is having suppressants delivered," he said. 

John winced. _Why?_ he wanted to ask. _Are you sure?_ But all he said, softly, was "he saw it on video then?" His gaze flickered up toward the far corner of the room. He and Sherlock regularly found cameras there, silently recording their activities. John had wondered last time why Mycroft always put them in the same place, and Sherlock had pointed out that it was the one vantage point that had a full view of the room. Now he just wished he'd been more diligent in ridding the flat of them when they appeared. 

"He did," said Sherlock. "He texted early this morning. As soon as the heat dissipated."

John glanced at Sherlock. "What did he say?" he asked. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and stood in flurry of arms and legs, twirling to pick up his violin. "He sent his commiserations."

...

A discrete package in brown paper was delivered later that day. Sherlock didn't say anything when it arrived, just took it with him into his bedroom, leaving John to thank Anthea alone. He stayed in there for nearly an hour, only emerging when John knocked on the door and asked quietly if he was all right. He came out looking subdued, but Mycroft's medication had obviously done it's work. He smelled like nothing at all. 

"The suppressants work then?" John asked. 

"Yes," Sherlock said. Then he pulled his dressing gown tight about his chest, and slid onto the couch with his back to John. 

John went about his day as normally as he could -- trying to ignore the fact that Sherlock wasn't talking; trying to suppress the part of him that wanted to break the silence; trying to pretend everything was still the same. The day passed with a glacial slowness, and eventually John went to bed early -- desperately wanting to avoid everything that wasn't being said. 

He lay awake until late, thinking of Sherlock lying silent on the couch, smelling of nothing more than shampoo and soap. He wondered if, perhaps, things weren't going to change, after all. He fell asleep still trying to reconcile _I want you, you're mine_ with Sherlock's face as he told John that the suppressants were on their way. He tried to ignore the part of him that wanted Sherlock to decide he didn’t need them. He wasn’t a therapist to decide whether Sherlock needed them or not. But... Mycroft wasn’t a therapist either. 

Perhaps tomorrow, once things had settled, he’d say something. Ask Sherlock if he was sure. 

...

John woke at five in the morning to the sound of Sherlock being violently sick in the bathroom. He lay for a long moment, listening. If this was what he thought it was he didn’t think Sherlock would want him to witness it. Sherlock had never liked an audience to his weaknesses. 

Minutes passed, and the sounds didn't fade. John winced and shifted uncomfortably. He rubbed at his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a long contemplative moment. Downstairs in the bathroom Sherlock retched again, a long dry heave. John sighed, it took him a moment to move, but his decision had already been made for him. Shivering a little at the cold floor beneath his feet, he slid from his bed and padded downstairs to peer into the small room. 

"Are you all right?" he asked, staying by the door, trying to appearing as unthreatening as he could. 

Sherlock didn't answer, just looked up at him from where he was kneeling, his dark eyes catching John's own. He stared at John for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before spinning back to retch into the bowl. His hair was limp against the back of his neck, where damp sweat clung to his skin. His face was chalk white, and his entire body was shivering. 

John stepped forward, slowly -- carefully -- invading Sherlock's space. 

Sherlock didn't react, barely seemed to notice John was coming closer, until John was right behind him. 

John wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected. Maybe he'd thought that Sherlock would ask him to leave; that Sherlock would say 'I'm fine' and 'go away' with his usual fire and bite. Maybe he'd thought that Sherlock would let him stay; would let him sit beside him as a silent companion because he didn't want to be alone. Maybe he'd thought Sherlock would ask for his mother, or Mycroft, or Mrs Hudson, or any number of people who weren't John; people who cared for him, cared about him, and would come any time he asked. 

He certainly hadn't expected Sherlock to say 'John' in a broken voice before turning to press his cheek against John's leg. 

Without thinking, John reached out to caress Sherlock's head. It was an automatic reaction. Something he'd done for countless omegas before. A gentle brush through the hair at their temple letting them know that they were loved; that they'd done well; that he wanted them to calm down. Half way through, he hesitated. 

Sherlock wasn't just another omega. He was John's best friend, and his colleague. He was someone that John had fought with, and laughed with. He was, most important of all, newly presented and too settled in old habits to comfortably transition. He was Sherlock, and he might not take kindly to John's hand running through his hair. 

"Sherlock?" he asked, warily, leaving his hand resting against Sherlock's scalp. 

Sherlock stilled, brought back to himself by the sound of John's voice. John felt his muscles tense, and began to pull his hand back, gently untangling his fingers from Sherlock's hair. 

Then: "Don't stop." Sherlock's voice was thin, and his whisper was almost inaudible. John paused, not sure that he'd heard him clearly. Sherlock seemed to sense his hesitation, because he pressed closer into John's thigh and said, a little louder, "Don't stop. Please."

John took a deep breath. He looked down at Sherlock, his face hidden in John's pyjama pants, his dressing gown open and trailing across the floor. Then, moving slowly, he pressed firmly against Sherlock's scalp, cradling the side of his head in the palm of his hand. "Sherlock," he said softly, holding him tight to his thigh. "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but after a moment his shoulders began to shake and John felt a warm dampness on his leg. 

John didn't say anything. He'd seen enough to know that crying wasn't a weakness to be mocked. It wasn't something only emotional omegas did during their time. It didn't make Sherlock lesser, and it certainly wasn't because he had somehow become weaker now he had transitioned. John knew that tears were sometimes just unstoppable. He'd seen alphas bawl over injuries that had omegas simply gritting their teeth. He'd seen betas weep in sadness when death visited a loved one, crying while omegas persevered and did what needed to be done. He'd seen enough to know this for what it was. This was Sherlock, his friend, no more, no less, ill and in shock. 

He waited until Sherlock's shoulders stopped shaking with the force of his tears before he shifted to get more comfortable. With a gentle hand he pressed Sherlock away, then he sank down beside him, sitting with a wince on the cold tiles, his back against the wall. Once he was settled he let Sherlock press his face back into his shoulder, and resumed brushing a hand through his hair. Sherlock didn't speak, and John took that as an implicit request for silence. 

Minutes ticked over, and John felt Sherlock's long limbs begin to relax. His arms went around John's torso in a loose embrace, and his legs splayed across the floor in a manner that looked supremely uncomfortable but which seemed to work anyway. John held him close his chest, one hand cradling his head, the other running soothing lines up and down his back. 

"The suppressants..." Sherlock said, his voice soft. 

John's hand on his back stilled. "It was them then?" he asked. 

Sherlock nodded a wordless assent, before falling silent again, his forehead pressing against John's left shoulder. He shifted a little, and it was only once he settled that John realised he'd moved to press his mouth against the wound in his shoulder. 

That was --

\-- he didn't know what that was.

Pushing aside the shiver that trickled down his spine at the realisation, John tried to focus on the mechanics of what Sherlock had just said. His body was rejecting the suppressants. His system seemed to have purged the last of the them before John arrived. The dry heaves had gone entirely as soon as he relaxed. 

He was still hot, though. It was as though he was running a low fever. John pressed a hand to his warm forehead and wished he could offer him something more soothing than a prescription of bed rest and liquids. 

"I never wanted this to be my life," muttered Sherlock into his shoulder. 

John didn't say anything. Sometimes there just wasn't anything to say. Transitioning was hard at any time. But it was easier if it happened while you were young, when everything was new, and the strange was an everyday occurrence -- before comfortable habits and familiar routines settled around you like a second skin. John pressed a hand against Sherlock's warm shoulder because when words were not enough all that was left was touch. 

Long minutes passed. John closed his eyes. Another ten minutes and he would urge Sherlock back to bed. Until then he would simply hold him close.


End file.
